The Shaman in the room

Imagine if  you will, a small classroom full of 6th graders anticipating the first day of school.  There is a slight murmur of noise and laughter. Some students are confidently leaning back in their chairs. Others are trying not to be seen, with their heads down and pencils writing some unknown, non-sense words in a crisp new notebook. I am their teacher, ready for their attention at the white board.  All of us are anticipating the next move. Which proverbial shoe will drop first?

That is when I heard it.  A low humming sound at first. Then it stopped. I look around the dimly lit room. Something was different about these students.  I noticed some kids had their mothers with them.  Others were very sad looking and had pacifiers.  Odd, I thought. Why would there be mothers in class? And what is it with a 6th grader using a pacifier? Do I take it away? Gross! Is it a special fidget that is allowed by the child’s learning plan? I was in the middle of this conundrum, when I heard the noise again…This time it was louder.

…Is that….Is that…chanting?!

Can’t be. This is science class after all, and I am the teacher. I’m here, at the white board! The learning objective was written;  I fully expect my students to be writing it down and paying attention to the day’s lesson.  Yet, I can’t ignore the chanting. I turn and look to the back of the classroom where the noise was coming from. And there I see him.

He is a young native american man. Navajo, I’m told in my head.  He is older than a 6th grader, but not old enough to be out of high school.  He has a daisy tattooed underneath his left eye. And his eyes! Big, brown, soft glowing eyes. Innocent like a babies–yet full of wisdom and pain.  He is sitting next to his grandmother, who seems nervous–as if she was in a doctor’s waiting room anticipating bad news.  On the other side of this man-child is a young girl, about 10 years or so.  She is playing with a thick, black braid in her hair.  

My gaze turns back to the man-child’s face. He is just sitting there, chanting in his native language.  I start to notice that the other student’s in the room have become aware of this man-child and I. My teacher “spidey-senses” picks up and I realize I am going to lose what order I have of my class, unless I put an end to this disruption.  

I kneel down next to the man-child.  He is now taller than me sitting in his chair. My eyes lock with his eyes. Inseparable we were–for that brief moment in time. Oh my God, he is reading my soul! Chanting to the rhythm of every life I have ever lived. He is chanting the language of Light that is speaking the truth of who I am, who I ever was, and who I ever will be.  

Being exposed at my core, left me vulnerable–an emptiness I can’t explain.  Not wanting to stay in the void for very long, I stood up and looked at the grandmother sitting next to him.  “Please.” I somehow choke the words out. “I’m going to have to ask him to step outside while I continue class.”  Those words echoed in the hollow room. Was it the room that was hollow? Or perhaps it was my courage that was missing–a body full of fear.  

I now see myself watching the three of them leave the room.  Like wisps of leaves being blown by an unseen force, they exit the classroom not looking back.  I stand there now alone in this room.  No students. No mothers. No desks. Just me looking down at me, at the white board. Frozen in a dream state. I am waking up…Unfortunately.  

If this was your dream, how would you feel waking up from it? Oh, I have an idea of what it all means–for me. I can’t help but think, somehow I threw myself out of that classroom. A part of me, like the grandmother, really wanted to stay–but lacked hope that the outcome would be anything than what it was. Two innocent children, different from the rest, were singled out and labeled as a distraction.  

Why was the man-child, this Shaman in the room, a distraction to me? What is more important than acknowledging the beautiful ancestral gifts I have within? What is more important than looking into my own eyes and seeing the magnificent soul I possess? Deep down, I know the answer to that question. Yet have not the words nor the courage to say.

What can our dreams tell us about ourselves? Dreams are like the Netflix of the subconscious.  We can choose to just play the reruns of our daily lives–binge watching one marathon after another, until we wake up to what they are trying to teach us. Or we can learn from them and apply that to our waking life.  Socrates is quoted as saying “An unexamined life is not worth living.” I’d like to add “An examined life that is not lived, is not really a life at all.”